Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

grandfather and far heavier, with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair that is giving way to inevitable baldness. The guests gaze around the room, inspecting us with clear interest.
    “I see you’ve brought in a few new ones,” the older man says.
    “You should come by the house again, Carl. See what we have.” Mr. Desmond gestures toward the bar. “Something to drink, gentlemen?”
    “Scotch would be good,” says the older man.
    “And what about you, Phil? Richard?”
    “Same for me.”
    “That champagne will do nicely.”
    The boat’s engines are now rumbling. I look out the window and see that we are moving, heading out into the river. At first the men do not join us. Instead they linger near the bar, sipping their drinks, talking only to one another. Olena and I understand English, but the other girls know only a little, and their mechanical smiles soon fade to looks of boredom. The men discuss business. I hear them talk about contracts and bids and road conditions and casualties. Who is vying for which contract and for how much. This is the real reason for the party; business first, then fun. They finish their drinks, and the bartender pours another round. A few final pleasantries before they fuck the whores. I see the glint of wedding rings on the hands of the three guests, and I picture these men making love to their wives in big beds with clean sheets. Wives who have no idea what their husbands do, in other beds, to girls like me.
    Even now, the men glance our way, and my hands begin to sweat, anticipating the evening’s ordeal. The older one keeps looking toward Olena.
    She smiles at him, but under her breath she says to me in Russian: “What a pig. I wonder if he oinks when he comes.”
    “He can hear you,” I whisper.
    “He can’t understand a word.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    “Look, he’s smiling. He thinks I’m telling you how handsome he is.”
    The man sets his empty glass on the bar and crosses toward us. I think he wishes to be with Olena, so I stand up to make room for him on the couch. But it is my wrist he reaches for, and he stops me from leaving.
    “Hello,” he says. “Do you speak English?”
    I nod; my throat has gone too dry to answer. I can only gaze at him in dismay. Olena rises from the couch, flashes me a sympathetic look, and wanders away.
    “How old are you?” he asks.
    “I am . . . I am seventeen.”
    “You look much younger.” He sounds disappointed.
    “Hey Carl,” Mr. Desmond calls out. “Why don’t you take her for a little stroll?”
    Already, the other two guests have chosen their companions. One of them is now leading Katya away, down the corridor.
    “Any stateroom will do,” our host adds.
    Carl stares at me. Then his hand tightens around my wrist, and he leads me down the corridor. He pulls me into a handsome stateroom, paneled with gleaming wood. I back away, my heart hammering as he locks the door. When he turns back to me, I see that his pants are already bulging.
    “You know what to do.”
    But I don’t; I have no idea what he expects, so I am shocked by the sudden blow. His slap sends me to my knees and I huddle at his feet, bewildered.
    “Don’t you listen? You stupid slut.”
    I nod, dropping my head and staring at the floor. Suddenly I understand what the game is, what he craves. “I’ve been very bad,” I whisper.
    “You need to be punished.”
    Oh god. Let this be over soon.
    “Say it!”
he snaps.
    “I need to be punished.”
    “Take off your clothes.”
    Shaking now, terrified of being hit again, I obey. I unzip my dress, pull off my stockings, my underwear. I keep my gaze lowered; a good girl must be respectful. I am completely silent as I stretch out on the bed, as I open myself to him. No resistance, just subservience.
    As he undresses, he stares at me, savoring his view of compliant flesh. I swallow my disgust when he climbs on top of me, his breath sharp with scotch. I close my eyes and concentrate on the growl of the engines, on the slap of water against the hull. I float above my body, feeling nothing as he thrusts into me. As he grunts and comes.
    When he is finished, he does not even wait for me to dress. He simply rises, puts on his clothes, and walks out of the stateroom. Slowly, I sit up. The boat’s engines have quieted to a low purr. Looking out the window, I see that we are returning to land. The party is over.
    By the time I finally creep from the stateroom, the boat is once again docked, and the